


The Shadow of the Waxwing Slain

by tyroneslothrop



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Dopplegangers, Existentialism, Kinda, M/M, Parallel Universes, This reeks of Wilde and Eco influence I'm sorry, blasphemy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4781942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyroneslothrop/pseuds/tyroneslothrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil makes an offhand comment in a video, and Dan becomes troubled with their living room mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shadow of the Waxwing Slain

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Vladimir Nabokov's Pale Fire:
> 
> "I was the shadow of the waxwing slain  
> by the false azure of the window pane"
> 
> Inspired by Phil's comment in this video: https://youtu.be/o_MuYgAypik?t=755

 "Do you believe there's another world at the other side of a mirror where everything is opposite?"

Dangled. That is how he feels. The crowd jeers below his form. Blindfolded, gagged and tied up, a tire swing swimming through the spring time breeze. Consume me, he thinks. He beckons the sun to light him aflame.

“No...” he jeers in haste, keeping up the facade of casual banter.

"But what if you could see everything? Be a minor God? Imagine if you could wade in your past..." he says, thoughtful. The look Dan shoots at him quells him almost immediately.

"The past!" Dan cries, "if man thought of the present as much as he did the past, woe and trouble would be but a footnote in the autobiography of life!"

More scraps on the editing room floor. They continue the video in jest, Phil's ridiculous comment soon forgotten. But like a worm, it buries it's way into Dan's mind. Ever present in the sepulcher of his skull.

Later that evening they wrap up the video and part, Phil to edit and Dan to do a light spot of reading. As he passes the doorway, he catches his reflection in a booming piece of decoration displayed at the heart of the room. Despite his reassurances that Phil was talking nothing of value, Dan was evermore aware of their mirror. It was omnipresent, still twinkling whilst engulfed in the burning embers of night. A reflection of man's soul, a philosopher once said. It scorned upon the rest of the decor, and Dan lit the fire below, almost praying for the flames to swallow the glass whole.

Since that night, whenever he passed it, he felt a sentient thrum resonate in the air. Warmth seeped from it, ricocheting through the room, eventually slicing his eyes.

-

There is nothing more mechanical and insincere than the conga line of 'thank you's' that sound whenever the bus slows down. Dan is perched on a starchy seat next to a fanciful looking woman, and she is putting her mask on. Dan is content to pick his fingernails in response. He glances up at her and she's dabbing scarlet on her cheeks, her lips already stained red. For a few moments, she gets distracted by something from her window. Her mirror tilts closer to Dan's form. A pink blob beckons him from the reflection, and it takes him a long time to realize it is himself. What he sees in his eyes and the sliver of fat under his chin rips the bones from his flesh. His heart dangles from the top of the carriage for everyone to see, to judge. He flees the vehicle, and he does not find home till the dark hours.

-

Phil begins to notice Dan's constant unease, and the fact that the living room amplifies it. His enquires remain unanswered. His attempts to please are only acknowledged by a simple, heartless 'thank you'. One day he sees Dan sat on the furthest end of the couch.

He lifts his face towards him, his eyes sunken. “Have you ever thought about redecorating this room? Gut it out, donate half of it to charity? Redesign it from scratch?”

The look Phil gives him is one of bewilderment. Dan sighs, and retreats to his room.

-

Every passing second slices his veins. He is face to face with the glass that has pained him all these weeks, and each tick of the clock punctures deep within his heart. This is the day, he feels. The day he ends it. Whether he end it by hammer or by entertaining it's vapidity, he does not know yet. His instrument is sat upon the mantelpiece, weighty and ready for use.

The noir of night is drowning the room, playing tug-a-war with the colours, trying to dampen them. They have a lot of fight in them though. The crimson Mario plant, the novelty lights, the rainbow dining chairs all dance in the soft sway of the breeze. Taunting the darkness.

He hasn't been in such proximity with the mirror before, and the heat is liquefying. He takes a step back. Breathes. Considers the hammer. Decides against it. Touches the pane. It's cool to the touch, a jarring contrast. He feels like he's been thrown to the sea, an unwilling visitor in the uncanny valley. The flesh of the mirror ripples around his fingers, like koi fish strolling through a pond. “Come in”, it almost seems to whisper, and Dan startles.

He pushes his fingers through and feels... air. He pulls it back. Puts it back in. The mirror has a stern look upon itself, in a manner that almost says “stop messing around”.

He climbs through, an arm, another arm, till it seems his entire body sinks into it. His skin tightens around his bones and his stomach fights against him. He drowns further, further and the wind passing him feels like black silk. Bequeathed like a God, he can almost see the angels fanning him. The environment is almost tomb like, and he is reminded of how close sleep and death are. Sisters sharing secrets with each other. He closes his eyes, wishes for the humble Reaper to come to him. Nothing. He awakens again.

With the blink of an eye, everything turns to a spectrum of glass. Rainbow's soak his skin and he is, for a few seconds, beautiful. In the glass sceptre of Jesus, the one he uses to command the weather. He has created sunshine now, and the hummingbirds tweet around him. Love wins. He basks in it, smiling adoringly to his new companions. This luxury is soon grasped from his fingers.

Falling further, he is rushed from the sky to the uterus of a rose. Bloody, rotten petals fall off at his touch. Sealed by a phosphorus tomb, he is now squeezed by the soft pillows that surround him. When the encasing escapes him he is engulfed with light and cheers. Old, weather beaten faces beam to him, and from the shadow of the manger he can see his soul escape him.

They litter him with gifts and Dan feels strangely out of body. They cheer him on, and call him sacred, and he lays on the hay in baffled amusement. Prostrated. That is how he feels, erected for mass consumption and admiration. Whether marble or clay he could not feel, as he is now trapped in his own brain. Love is bestowed upon his figure regardless. The trickle of his innards slides down him, till it is no longer acid. Burnt metal cascades down his legs and pours into the ground, worthless.

The celebration rapidly dissolves into something more human. They begin to strip, taking on the form of unholy peasants. Hey fornicate in front of him, and he observes his fingers. Adult hands. A full body shudder overtakes him. As it turns out, the scale from 'human' to 'daemons' is a short one. The mask is torn from their faces. Soon they are dancing in their own excrement and blood. Vomit seems to pour from the heavens and onto the hay. The sexual ritual has turned to murder and Dan cowers by his mother, who is weeping. His soul smiles from the sky above him.

The sunken vomit seeps down and takes him to another world. He feels his skin form it's way into an eye, his bellybutton the iris. I see all and feel all. I am what the rest of the world must appease to, I am aware all sins and all ignorance. All but my own. The stench of gluttony and lust overwhelms me, I feel your pride harboring within my lungs. I am the key to Heaven, and I grant none access.

He feels something close behind him, and a tiny part of him is aware is that this is it. The end of the other side of the mirror. He's here now. He breathes in the air. Might as well get accustomed.

Phil was right. Except he cannot see anything opposite. Not yet, anyhow. He is now granted a bird's eye view of the proceedings. He and Phil are lain on their couch, caressing in a casual manner, a slave to nothing. Least of all the floating being above them. There is little difference between this Dan and the one he left behind. But his crow's feet are more prominent, his lips look strained and tired, and his eyes shine with something he hasn't felt in a long time.

He is happy.


End file.
